Blueberries
by that inbetween shade of grey
Summary: Summer time; the flowers are growing and the blueberries are ripe. Post-Mockingjay, Katniss-centric, Everlark.


**Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters. If I'd written the Hunger Games, there is no way Finnick would have died.**

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It's drawing closer to summer and so they go out to play in the meadow every day now. She joins them on occasion, Peeta joins them every other day, and he sits and sketches and she stands and watches the three of them who have torn her heart in two, dappled sunlight in their hair reminding her of different forests. Her body is tensed and she rocks onto the balls of her feet; she still hasn't managed to get out of the mind-set that she must always be ready to protect them. Her grey eyes glint silver when her daughter blows a dandelion into her brother's face, and she muses that perhaps she never will.

...

But there are some days when she cannot bear the golden springtime that makes her think of flowers and stags and goats, and she sits at home and sobs silently, her body an abandoned shipwreck as she shudders. She traces her hands over her scars and wishes that she could see her once more, just once, so she could explain – she's not good with words, but she'd try, if she could just be given one more chance, please, please, please. But then she remembers that this _is_ her other chance, and that the pale-yellow flowers that spring up around her ankles inside her head are the only memories that she has. Her raw gaping mouth silently struggles over the word she can't say: "Primrose, Primrose, Primrose."

...

It has not been one of those days today. Today had been a happy day, or at least as happy as she could be, now (perhaps content is more appropriate). Peeta and her had stayed in together, and they had sat together on the kitchen counter, a forgotten bowl of bread dough somewhere behind him. They didn't need to speak any more, and he'd needed silence. Her hands had run over his scarred body, and she'd kissed every one she found, in the same way that two nights ago in bed he had kissed every freckle he could see – and some he couldn't.

When they'd walked in – the little girl first and the little boy tumbling after – she'd been calm, and it had looked like today might be a nice day. They had some kind of purplish stain around their mouths and she began to chide them, a smile on her face showing them that she wasn't serious, Mummy was joking as she leapt down from the counter like a true Victor, but then she'd stopped.

Her daughter's outstretched hand was full of little blue berries, and she drew a hand to her mouth, tears in her eyes and a gasp in her throat and she shook her head and hid her face in her hands and when her hips hit the counter she stopped and she gagged and Peeta stepped down. He saw the berries and his eyes widened and he whispered something to the children, and the little girl nodded and ran, her eyes as wide as her daddy's, and the berries were scattered across the floor.

She felt his strong hands around her waist, and she turned and collapsed into his chest, her ear where his heart was. He was shaking too, like a dandelion in the breeze, and they sank to the floor, soothing each other's whimpers.

...

It took two days of his careful gaze on her (his hands gripping her wrists) to remind him that she was not going anywhere, ever again, and that she was not a snake.

It took two hours of listening to his steady heartbeat to remind her that he was alive and in her arms and that that is where he would stay.

It took Haymitch two minutes to explain to their children that they mustn't ever take Mummy and Daddy blueberries, but that he'd like to help them pick some, if they'd like.

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**AN: So, um, my first attempt at Everlark. I've shipped this forever, but I've always felt like they're a very delicate pair to get right, so have avoided writing anything for that reason. But I got this stuck in my head, and I kind of liked it. I hope I didn't ruin them, I haven't read Mockingjay in a while. Please review if you like it (or if you don't, I will never refuse writing advice/critique).**


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